


Notte

by starvinbohemian



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Grief, M/M, Winter, a late halloween story, dead loved ones, monsters with familiar faces
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvinbohemian/pseuds/starvinbohemian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re standing in the cemetery when John clasps his shoulder, his grip a tad desperate, and says, "If he comes for you… then you can’t let him in.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notte

        They’re standing in the cemetery when John clasps his shoulder, his grip a tad desperate, and says, “If he comes for you… then you can’t let him in.”

        There’s a white lily in Paul's hand, one that he’s supposed to throw on top of the coffin as they lower it into the ground. He can’t seem to let the flower go, so the delicate petals are being crushed between his fingers.

        Soft snow falls around them, coating the scene with gentle persistence. Paul watches Justin gently brush the snow from Adrienne’s hair and feels a deep ache split open like a wound in his chest. He can’t be bothered to wipe the snow from his own face. 

        Those in attendance stand huddled together, shivering in collective misery. Paul’s come to discover that Salem’s winters can be brutal, but the cold can't touch him. Not today.

        Considering that this is the funeral for one of Salem’s most beloved sons, ten people make for a pitiful showing. Many were too afraid to venture out of their homes for so long, even in the daytime. Some have already fled the city. Others are dead.

        Plus, these funerals are starting to feel like déjà vu. Only last week, they were standing in this very spot mourning another empty coffin. 

        John tries to keep his voice down for the benefit of Sonny’s parents, who are standing only a few feet away from them. Paul thinks they’re probably deaf to the world beyond their own pain at the moment. Justin and Adrienne look as if they’ve been punched in their stomachs. He understands all too well.

        John’s words are a hot puff of steam against his ear. “Paul, it won’t be him anymore. You know that. It will have his face, but it won’t _be_ him. Sonny is…”

         _Gone._

        Sonny is gone.

        Paul’s voice sounds hollow even to himself. “I know that.” They were all there the night Chad came back and tried to burn down the Horton family house because Abigail was inside. They all saw what Chad had become. And there have been others...

        “I know you do, Son. I just…”

        He wants to shake John’s tight grip from his shoulder, but years of conditioning keep him still. His father seems to fear that Paul will try to throw himself over the coffin if John doesn’t keep a firm enough hold on him.

        John needn’t worry. He’s still, rooted to the spot beside Sonny’s freshly dug grave. He barely remembers how to move. He feels hot and cold and numb all over, and the cold isn't from the snow. 

        Despite his stoicism, Paul’s bitterness must be splashed across his face. Because Kate corners him after the ceremony, righteously indignant despite the inappropriate timing, and says to him, “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t Will. There’s no proof that he did this. You don’t _know_.”

        But he does. He does know. And so does she.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        Sonny first asked him the night they met.

        The image of Sonny as he was that night on the rooftop would be forever immortalized in Paul's mind: young and beautiful and back-lit by a thousand San Francisco lights down below. 

        Open and without a hint of shame as he asked, "Do you believe in aliens?" 

        Paul used to believe in a lot of things: in his family, in baseball, in his and Sonny’s love. But he never believed in anything he couldn’t see or touch.

        Still. Later that night, as he trailed his fingers over Sonny’s bare back and Sonny’s warm eyes seemed to glow at him as he watched him over his shoulder, Paul would concede the argument. Because Sonny was not only apparently adorable when he got worked up about something, but also eager to reward Paul’s surrender.

        He lied that night for a smile. Paul wasn’t raised religious or superstitious. Aliens, ghosts, Bigfoot— it all sounded absurd to him back then. 

        Now, the irony leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. God, he wishes he could go back to even three weeks ago, knowing what he knows now, because that was when Sonny had looked at him with sunken, no-longer-glowing eyes and asked him,

        “Do you believe in monsters?”

**_____________  
________________________________**

        After the significantly shortened ceremony is over, everyone rushes back to the safety of Victor’s home, where there are armed guards stationed around the property’s perimeter and strands upon strands of crucifixes entwined in garlic garlanded around the house. 

        No one knows if these precautions actually serve a purpose, but so far, they seem to at least keep the monsters out.

        (It’s keeping the people _in_ that seems to be the real challenge.) 

        Paul sits alone and apart on the windowsill, silently watching everyone mill about the Kiriakis living room. The mood is grim as they pick at the sympathy casseroles with lackluster interest. 

        As the sky darkens outside, they grow quieter, their ears perked for the sounds they’re all dreading. Inevitably, everyone’s eyes turn towards the windows. 

        Eventually, Victor reaches behind Paul and yanks the curtains closed with an irritated grunt. Paul thinks the room breathes easier for it, and he wonders why no one else bothered to close them. 

        Watching these people, bound together in this prison of fear, Paul begins to question his own presence. He barely knows most of them. Some— like Kate— he wishes he knew far less. Fear makes for strange bedfellows. If these are his final days— and they might be— then he’s not sure that these are the people he wants to die with. 

        Paul knows why he came, but he doesn’t know why he’s stayed. Not anymore. His father and Marlena are here, but they’re not the reason. He’s seen John in action. Despite his age, the man can handle himself, and as long as he continues to do so, Marlena won’t be tempted to open any doors or windows.

        Across the room, Maggie and Jennifer try to comfort Adrienne. They coo and they soothe, no doubt offering platitudes about her dead son. Paul can’t tell if Adrienne even hears them. She just sits there in her chair, looking gaunt and dazed, as if she’s trapped in a nightmare she doesn’t understand and can’t wake up from. 

        Their eyes meet suddenly, and he’s surprised when she actually appears to see him. Something like understanding passes between them, their pain caught in a psychic loop, and Paul is the first to look away. 

        He stands and makes for the kitchen, hating the weight of her gaze on his back as he goes.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        Everyone has their reasons for staying.

        Their reasons are all stupid. Staying in Salem is suicide. Anyone who’s stupid enough to stay is doing so for love. Why else? What hope is there for those who stay? They have no idea what they're even fighting. Only guesses. For every one of those things that they take out, two more seem to spring up. Salem is practically a ghost town. Even so, there are no bodies or other evidence, and so no one believes them. 

        Paul didn’t believe it either. Not at first. Not until Chad.

        Those creatures... They're smart. For the most part, they avoid detection. It’s likely that they target people who love them because they’re the easiest to get to. It’s efficient selection. Paul and the others have seen evidence enough of that.

        Unfortunately, the bastards turn to dust as they're killed, so they leave no evidence behind. No one's managed to take one alive. 

        While others (smartly) fled the city, Paul stayed in Salem for one reason. And it wasn't due to any misguided heroism. 

        He stayed because Sonny wouldn’t leave. It was as simple as that. 

        “Paul, don’t do this.”

        He looks up from his task into Victor’s grim eyes. He’s surprised. Of all the people to try and stop him, he didn’t think it would be Victor.

        Paul shakes his head and goes back to sharpening the stake. “He might come after Ari.” 

        “Maybe.”

        Paul continues, “Ari won’t understand. She’ll open the door for her daddy.” Paul thinks that losing Arianna to those things will effectively kill what's left of this town's spirit. They don’t have much left to spare as it is. 

        “And then someone will have to stop him. But it shouldn’t be you.”

        “Who then?” Not Justin, Sonny’s own father. Not Victor, who suddenly looks every one of his seventy years. Not Brady, who needs to stay safe for Tate. Not Hope, who is busy overseeing the reconstruction of Horton Town Square into a defense zone. Who else has killed one of them and lived to tell about it? Who, except…

        “Let John do it,” Victor says, gruff in that straightforward way of his.

        Yes, it could be John. But Paul won’t let it be him. John didn’t love Sonny. Not as Paul did. John didn’t let Sonny down. John didn’t promise Sonny that he would never let him hurt the people he loved. No, Paul won’t hide in the Kiriakis mansion while his daddy fixes his mistakes for him.

        “It shouldn’t be _you_ ,” Victor says again. “Sonny wouldn’t want…” 

        Paul gives him a sharp look, and Victor’s voice abruptly trails off. It’s the first time Sonny’s name has been spoken aloud by either of them since it happened. He’s not ready to hear it.

        “This is the same stupidity that got Sonny killed in the first place."

        Paul’s head snaps back as if he’s been slapped. “Don't,” he gasps. “Don't you talk about him like that!”

        “Why not? I loved that boy more than my own life, but he was a fool for love. That's just the truth. I knew that Horton boy would be the death of him, but I had no idea how right I was. He knew what that thing was, and he still opened the window for it. Just as you're going to do.”

        Paul closes his eyes, pained. "It had Will's face."

        "And the next one will have Sonny’s face." 

        Paul turns away from him. "I don't care."

        Victor scoffs. "You don't care if it looks and sounds like Sonny, but you can't even hear his name without flinching."

        Paul has to swallow down the pain and rage because Victor isn’t the enemy, and he knows that. Regaining his composure, he turns back. "You can't stop me," he says coldly. “No one can. Sonny is out there, and I’m going to find him.”

        Victor must see the resolve in Paul’s face, because he shakes his head sadly and calls him a fool. “You’ll never be able to look yourself in the eye again. And Sonny would never forgive me if I just let you go without saying that.”

        Paul can’t let himself think about that now. Satisfied with the point of his stake, he heads for the door.

        Victor’s words follow him. “Are you hoping he’s already dead so you won't have to do it? Or are you hoping that he’s been turned so you’ll be able to see him again? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer.”

**_____________  
________________________________**

        Paul goes upstairs to the room that had been Sonny’s since he was a little boy.

        Sitting on Sonny’s bed, he looks around the room, feeling more than a little out of place. He thinks about the last time he and Sonny spoke. 

        Sonny was sitting right in this spot, and Paul had begged him— on his knees with Sonny’s hands clasped in his _begged_ him— not to let Will in if he came while Paul was gone. 

        Sonny had looked at him with blank eyes, his face wane from shock and grief. His hands were cold in Paul’s. But he’d promised. He’d promised so Paul would stop hovering over him, so Paul would join the others who needed his help taking out a cluster of those things that were discovered nesting in the park.

        Why did Paul go? 

        He knew better. He knew Sonny was in danger, because it was Will, and because everyone else was so focused on their own grief for Will that they refused to see the danger he presented to Sonny. Only Victor had seemed to understand, and yet he had encouraged Paul to go.

        “What’s going to protect him more? Hiding in this house or actually doing something about the problem?”

        Victor was wrong. So, so wrong. 

        Paul clutches one of Sonny’s shirts to his chest. It has to be the grief, but the shirt still feels warm in his hands. Paul holds the shirt up to his face and breathes in what’s left of Sonny. 

        As it turns out, nothing is left. The shirt is cold and probably hasn’t even been worn since before Paul laid it out for Sonny with the hope that he would finally get out of bed that day. 

        For the first time since Paul had heard the news, a sob, ugly and raw, rises in his throat, threatening to choke him.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        He gives himself one night.

        One night to grieve, to curl up in Sonny’s bed, surrounded by Sonny’s things, and to remember the man he loved.

        To remember the first time they kissed, and the curve of Sonny’s smile.

        The first time they made love, and the first time Sonny told him he loved him.

        The way Sonny had so often tasted of coffee when their lips met, and the soft pull of his arms around Paul’s neck.

        And, for once, to think without guilt of the torn way Sonny had looked at him when Paul begged him to leave his husband for him. Of the hope Paul had harbored even when he knew it was wrong. The hope Sonny had either consciously or unconsciously given him right up until the night Will went missing and everything changed.

        Paul doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t want to waste a single minute of what he considers to be his last night with Sonny. The real Sonny.

        Because, somewhere out in the night, another Sonny waits for him. Waits to use everything that Sonny once was as a weapon against him. 

        They come sweet and seductive— “Honey, please open the door. I love you. Don't leave me out here all alone. Please. I _need_ you." 

        But once they don’t get their way, it all turns. Paul expects Sonny to twist the truth into painful, ugly lies the way that Chad did as Abigail sobbed into her mother’s arms.

        He’ll have to prepare himself for the horrible things Sonny might say to him. Paul’s given him plenty of ammunition over the years. There are nothing but soft points between them. Paul expects Sonny will tell him that he never loved him, that it was always Will— and _only_ Will— for him, and that he’ll be mocked for his stubborn hope. That’s just a given. 

        But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight is for him. He needs to take everything he knows as truth and use it to fortify himself for tomorrow night.

        Sonny loved him. In the beginning, definitely, if not at the end. 

        That’s enough, he thinks, to get him through this. 

        It has to be. Because there are no more tomorrows left for them. No more chances.

        And now it’s nightfall.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        The night crawls by slowly.

        Eventually, he hears the inevitable screams followed by gunfire. One of Victor’s guards. He must have scared the thing off, because the alarm never sounds. Before, Paul would have at least gone to check. 

        He doesn’t move. 

        Not yet.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        The sharp morning light from the window stings his tired eyes. 

        Paul rises, slow and sluggish, from the bed. He thinks he must have dozed off at some point, because he remembers hearing his name being called for a long time, soft and as if from a distance. 

        Paul’s legs feel heavy as lead as he shuffles over to the closet. There’s a lump in his throat as he runs his hand over the familiar shirts, searching for the right one. 

        In the end, he chooses one of Sonny’s plaid button-ups— the one he remembers Sonny lending him once after Arianna accidentally spilled her juice on him— and pulls it on. There's some comfort in wearing it, but not much. He hides the shirt beneath a large jacket.

        Looking around Sonny’s room, he says a last goodbye. (Just in case.) 

        Then, he heads downstairs.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        Adrienne catches his arm as he passes on his way to the door. Her eyes are luminous in an otherwise pale and gaunt face. 

        For a moment, he thinks she’s going to echo Victor and tell him that Sonny wouldn’t want this. 

        She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Do you think that, if you had gotten married, that Sonny never would have come back here? That he would have been safe?” 

        Before Paul can even begin to process or respond to what she’s said, Justin is there, pulling her away. His eyes send a silent apology over his shoulder before he turns entirely to his wife. 

        Paul can’t be angry with her. He’s wondered the same thing himself. Many, many times.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        He doesn’t tell John he’s going.

        But it shouldn’t surprise him. John had to know that Paul wouldn’t listen to him. He had to know. 

        And that must have been why he sounded so resigned, as if he were already talking to a dead man. They both knew he was wasting his breath. 

        Yesterday, Paul stood at Sonny’s grave and watched them pour dirt over an empty coffin. They could pour as much dirt as they pleased, but it would never be enough to truly bury their shame and failure. They should have protected him. 

        Paul tried. He knew as soon as Will was taken that he would eventually come back for Sonny. 

        They always come for their own. First victims are always loved ones. Family. Lovers. Children. Paul knew Will would come for Sonny, and he had. No one saw him enter the Kiriakis Mansion, but Paul knew it was him. Sonny’s room was on the third story of the house. The doors were still locked from the inside, but they found the window to Sonny’s room left open. Wide open.

         _“You can’t blame him,”_ John told him, after. _“If it had been Doc at the window…”_

        Unlike Victor, Paul doesn’t blame Sonny. He can’t. Instead, he blames himself for not being there. He blames everyone else for _not being there._ He told them. He _warned_ them, and they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t _want_ to listen. 

        And now Sonny is dead, and Paul might as well be.

**_____________  
________________________________**

        Sitting in Horton Town Square, Paul watches as Hope’s boys hang strands of garlic around the buildings and light poles, like some twisted homage to Christmas.

        Using a mostly empty journal he found in Sonny’s room, he writes two letters to his mother and grandfather back in San Francisco. 

        In the first, he tells the truth. About everything. This letter will shock them, but it will be the truth. He tells his family that the creatures came quietly one night and started picking people off. That they came so quietly, so insidiously that several were dead before anyone had a clue that something was off. That he’s gone to kill a monster with Sonny’s face, and that if they don’t hear from him, it will probably mean he’s failed.

        In the second, he weaves truth and lie. He tells them that the love of his life is dead— as to how, he leaves it vague— and so he’s leaving for a while until he can figure out how to breathe right again. 

        In both letters, he tells them that he’s sorry, and he asks them to relay the same to John. This isn’t how he wanted things to end, but it is what it is. In either case, if Paul dies, then they’ll find out eventually, but maybe they won’t have to know how it happened. They would never believe it anyway.

        After trekking across town to their penthouse, Paul leaves both letters in John and Marlena’s mailbox, trusting both that they’ll know what to do with them and that they’ll eventually check their mailbox.

        After that, he spends the rest of the day searching for another nest. He knows they’re out there, and one of them has to have the creature he’s looking for. He sticks to the outskirts of town to minimize his chances of running into anyone else he might know. 

        Ultimately, he’s successful in avoiding the others but unsuccessful in finding a nest. By the time he’s circled back around to the cemetery, it’s nearly sundown. His shoes crunch over fresh snow, and he does his best not to step on any hidden grave markers. Out of respect, if not superstition. 

        As he passes by Will’s grave, Paul's feet slow. Anger licks at him out of habit, but he's otherwise so shut down that the flame has nowhere to catch and spread. 

        The last time Paul saw him, Will had looked ill, his face flushed and eyes slightly glazed over as though from fever. They didn’t speak, but Will sent him a withering glare as he passed him on the street. 

        Something about the look had nearly made Paul stop and demand an explanation. He didn’t, though, because he hadn’t been in the mood at the time to argue again about Sonny with Will. Besides, animosity was part of their deal. Same thing, different day.

        (A part of him expects to find Will tonight, too, and that part is very, very ready.) 

        Turning his back on Will, Paul kneels by Sonny’s headstone. He forces a smile onto his face. “Hey, you,” he says. “I brought you something.”

        It’s not a lily. This time, he’s brought Sonny a rose. A rose because he remembers Sonny once laughing at him while he sprinkled petals from the bed onto his nose. It’s one of his favorite memories. Always has been. 

        But the smile on his face doesn’t last long. Paul’s sadness returns, swift as a tide. Happy memories aren't enough to keep it away.

        He wishes he were the type to pray. He isn’t, so instead he just speaks from his heart. It turns out he still has a lot of things left to tell Sonny, things he never got to say while he was alive.

        “Your mom’s right, you know. I should have married you. I would have, eventually. God, Sonny, I wish you had waited. I’m sorry, but I do. You never would have had Will or Ari, but you would have had me. We would have had each other. We could have been happy. I know it. I think you knew it, too. Deep down. Now, I’ll never…” 

        Overcome by emotion, Paul smacks a hand over his mouth to contain the sob that wants to escape. He let himself cry last night. There’s no room left for crying. There’s work to be done, a final service to honor the man he loved. But first, he has to do this, even though it hurts, because it’s now or never. This is his only closure.

        “I’ll never be happy,” he chokes out. “I’ll never be happy without you. I tried once, and it didn’t work. You were a part of me. You were the best part of me.” 

        He lowers his head and places his hand against the headstone, hoping against hope that Sonny can somehow feel him. Despite a will to the contrary, several tears slide down his face. 

        "I'm so sorry, baby,” he croaks. “I should have been there. I should have killed it before it ever got near you." 

        He’s so wrapped up in his grief that he doesn’t notice as the sun sets, not even when the temperature drops and his breath becomes a thick cloud of steam in front of his face. It could be 100 degrees, and he would still feel cold. 

        The moon is bright. Even after nightfall, he can still make out the words on Sonny’s headstone.

         _Most beloved._

        He was, Paul thinks. He really was.

        A branch snaps behind him, and the sound jolts him from his reverie. His head snaps up. But before he can jump to his feet, he hears, 

        “Paul?”

        Barely a whisper, the voice is a douse of ice water over his entire body. 

        No. Not yet. He’s not ready. He can’t speak. He can’t even move.

        The voice comes louder this time. Nearer. “Paul? Is that you?”

        It takes everything in him to force his body up from his crouch. He turns. Dread, thick as molasses, slows the movement. Everything in him is screaming for him to run. 

        Despite the freezing temperature, Sonny is still wearing the same white t-shirt and jeans he was wearing the last time Paul saw him. He’s pale and shivering in the moonlight, his arms crossed over a blood-stained chest.

        “I had a dream about you,” he says absently.

        Paul’s mouth opens and nothing comes out.

        “We were… somewhere. It was snowing. Like this. You were dressed in white and smiling at me. You kissed my wrist, and then you… you _bit_ me.” 

        Sonny frowns down at his wrist as if the bite mark was actually there. “I was bleeding… and you were smiling.” He looks back up at Paul, his expression bewildered. “So was I.”

        Paul’s fingers twitch toward the stake in his back pocket, but he can’t seem to raise his arm. He thought he was prepared for this, but he didn’t know that Sonny would still look… _like Sonny._ He was supposed to be a monster, but he’s the same. Pale and covered in blood, but the same. Chad and the others had looked as they did before, but with those _teeth_...

        Oh, God. Sonny looks _alive_. As if they aren’t standing at his graveside. The pained moan catches in Paul’s throat. He can’t. He can’t do this if Sonny looks the same…

        “Paul… please. I think something bad happened to me,” he says in a small voice. "I need to go home." He visibly shudders and clutches his bare arms to his chest.

        Paul just shakes his head. 

        When Sonny takes a wobbly step towards him, Paul, remembering Chad, instinctively jumps back. Yes, he needs to remember Chad. Chad begged Abigail for help, too.

        (But not as convincingly as this. Barely convincing at all. Beneath the sweet words, the desperation to sink his teeth into something was palatable.)

        Paul’s sudden move makes Sonny stop. His blinks confusedly at Paul for a moment. Then, his nonplussed expression crumbles. 

        “Please. I don’t know what’s happened… but something’s wrong. I’m so cold.” He shambles closer. “I need to go home.” 

        Sonny, the bravest man he knows, sounds frightened, like a lost child. Paul can feel his heart breaking, crumbling into pieces right there in his chest. His hands fall limply by his sides. “Sonny,” he gasps brokenly.

        He reaches out for Paul. “Help me. I’m so cold.”

        Paul takes another step back, his instincts flying in all directions. “You’re…” Alive? Dead? _Undead?_ Paul doesn’t know. He has no idea what’s happening.

        “Paul, I want to go home. Take me home. Please…”

        Paul doesn’t realize he’s crying again until a hot tear scalds his cheek. He sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re dead.” He says it again to make it feel more real. “You’re _dead_.”

        Sonny stares at him. “No.”

        “Yes.”

        He shakes his head feebly. “No. I’m…”

        Paul finally manages to pull the stake from his pocket. “Sonny, where is Will?”

        “Will?” Sonny looks around as if Will might suddenly materialize. 

        He might. This could be an ambush. Paul’s hand tightens on the stake. 

        “I… I don’t know,” Sonny says.

        “You don’t know where Will is? Did he… did he do this to you?”

        Paul wants to hear Sonny’s confirmation of this. The desire comes from a sick, fetid place, but he needs to hear it.

        Sonny just shakes his head harder, looking distressed. “I don’t know where I am,” he says. “This isn't right. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.” 

        No longer looking at Paul, he turns and starts back for the woods. 

        Sonny’s retreat punches through the fear and forces Paul into action. “No!” he shouts. 

        The noise startles both of them. 

        Before he can think about it, Paul’s darted forward and pulled Sonny back by his arm. They stare at one another in surprised alarm.

        Sonny tentatively tries to pull his arm back, maybe testing the strength of Paul’s hold, but Paul’s grip is iron. “I have to go home,” he tells him again. 

        “You can’t,” Paul says sadly. “You can’t go home.”

        Sonny looks on the verge of tears. “Why not?” he whispers.

        The fresh snow has muffled the sounds around them, and there’s a deathly silence hanging over the clearing. They’re alone, maybe the only two people in the entire park. Succumbing to the strange mood, Paul’s voice lowers into a whisper, too.

        “Do you feel the same?” he asks. “Do you still feel like you? Can't you feel the difference?”

        Sonny just looks at him for a long time, and then he slowly shakes his head. Paul feels an icy clench in his gut. Without thinking, he reaches up to still Sonny’s trembling lips, running his thumb over his soft mouth. 

        Of course, the move is insane. Realizing what he’s done, Paul freezes with his thumb still on Sonny’s lower lip.

        Sonny just stares at him with wide, shining eyes, suddenly reminding Paul of how Adrienne had looked at him just hours earlier. “Paul, what’s happening?”

        “I don’t know,” he says honestly. 

        He’s still gripping Sonny’s arm, and he can’t make himself let go. He barely realizes that he dropped the stake into the snow when he reached for Sonny’s face. 

        But… it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. If Sonny were truly the monster Paul thought he’d be, then he would have attacked by now. He wouldn’t have tried to walk away. 

        Though, something has clearly happened to him. Paul doesn’t understand just what yet, but Sonny is obviously scared and hurt. Paul can’t just let him _leave_.

        “What’s happened to you?” He touches Sonny’s shirt. The blood is dry and caked on, so it isn’t fresh. That’s… something. “Whose blood is this?”

        Sonny looks down at his bloodstained shirt, and his eyes grow large with panic. His whole body starts shaking. “I don’t know. Paul, _I don’t know_.”

        Moved to action, Paul takes Sonny’s face in his hands and forces eye-contact between them. He soothes his hands over Sonny’s frozen cheeks. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

        Sonny stops trying to pull away. Giving in to Paul’s tenacious hold, he falls forward, burying his face in Paul’s chest with a sob. “I don’t understand. He did something to me. Everything _hurts_ now. Except when I…”

        Unable to help himself, Paul pulls Sonny fully into his arms. Sonny is as cold as a block of ice against him, but still soft. Still him. 

        “It’s okay,” he repeats for lack of anything else to offer. He rubs Sonny’s back and arms, trying to bring the warmth back in. Remembering his warm jacket, he rips it off and wraps it around Sonny’s shoulders before pulling him back against his chest. “Baby, it’s okay.”

        “Because you’re here.”

        “Yes.”

        Sonny slides his arms around Paul’s neck. “And you’re warm.” His cold lips press against Paul’s neck, making him shiver. “So warm. Paul…”

        It feels as if warmth suddenly coats him from head to toe, and Paul finds himself the one shaking in Sonny’s arms. This is impossible. 

        But it’s also _wonderful_. 

        He tightens his arms around Sonny, suddenly more afraid than he’s ever been before in his life. Sonny feels real and solid to him, but what if this is all a dream conjured up by his grief-stricken mind? He could still wake up, and Sonny could still be gone forever instead of here in his arms. He never thought he’d have Sonny in his arms again.

        His breath catches at the firmer touch of Sonny’s lips against his neck, and Paul suddenly feels hot enough to melt all the cold from both of them. He thinks Sonny is just trying to get warm, but then his hand comes up and cups the opposite side of Paul’s neck, pulling him closer to his hot mouth. Paul’s heart races. He says Sonny’s name, questioning.

        Sonny only hums in response. There’s a sudden prick of pain that Paul barely registers, but then Sonny’s grip on his neck tightens. Paul cries out as he’s abruptly jerked closer with more strength than Sonny should have had, looking like a shell of his former self.

        Then, Sonny’s teeth sink into his skin, and his bite is as sharp as needles. _Big_ needles. Panic flares, but before he can push Sonny away, a wash of shivery, warm pleasure rushes in to replace the pain. Oh… 

        He sags in Sonny’s arms with a whimper. Sonny, who is now somehow holding _him_ up. 

        Once he goes limp, Sonny releases his grip on Paul’s neck. He strokes Paul’s cheek softly, soothing. 

        Paul doesn’t understand, but he suddenly can’t bring himself to care. Whatever is happening feels so, so good. He moans helplessly, clutching at Sonny’s shoulders. His heartbeat is loud and steady as a drumbeat between his ears. Otherwise, it’s quiet and calm. He feels content in ways he hasn’t in a very, very long time. 

        And that ends with a bright, scorching light shining directly into his eyes.

        Sonny pulls away with a sharp hiss, and Paul yelps as hot pain suddenly tears at his neck. 

        His knees buckle. Hunched over in the snow, the first thing his clouded vision falls on is the bright red blood on otherwise pristine snow. He stares at it in confusion.

        There’s noise all around him, the once peaceful quiet shattered. He's in more pain than he’s ever felt before in his life, and all Paul registers is Sonny’s abrupt absence from his arms.

        “No!” he cries. He instinctively reaches for him, but Sonny is already gone, somehow disappeared back into the snow with preternatural swiftness.

        The loss hits Paul directly in the chest like a blow. Half-blind, he stumbles to his feet and tries to follow, but there are suddenly strong arms holding him back and John’s voice in his ear.

        “Paul! Stop it! Son, you have to _stop_!”

        No. Sonny is alone and afraid, and he doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. Paul wants to explain this to John, and he will later, but now there isn’t time. Even with the dark spots still in his vision from the spotlight, he can see several men rushing passed them into the woods after Sonny. They don’t understand. They could hurt him.

        Paul manages to break one arm free from John, but then Brady is in front of him, gripping his shoulders and shouting at him. “Paul, that wasn’t Sonny! It was one of them!”

        But Brady didn’t see. He didn’t see how Sonny was vulnerable and confused. He could have attacked Paul, but he didn’t. They were wrong. They were all wrong. They don’t understand how the monsters work at all, and Sonny could _still be in there_. Paul has to get to Sonny before something happens that they can’t take back. 

        “Let me go!” he demands.

        They don’t. 

        Paul isn’t thinking when he throws the punch at Brady. All he knows is that every second is precious, and they’re _wasting time_. Sonny isn’t gone, but he could still disappear forever if they let him go now. If they chase him away. 

        His fist collides with a solid crunch against Brady’s chin. He expects to be released, but John’s hold only tightens. 

        Then, someone who sounds like Rafe says, “Sorry about this,” and something solid hits him in the head.

        Everything goes dark.

**_____________  
________________________________**


End file.
